“Yeah,” he grumbles, reaching for a cup.
I resist the urge to arrange the sugar packs on the counter. They don’t have to be perfectly organized—and neither do I. Instead, I watch Chaz at work, his movements fluid and practiced. The bandana tied around his forehead holds back springy curls, and tattoos peek out from the scrunched sleeves of his sweater. I’ve seen him like this dozens of times in the last five weeks, and it never gets old.
He belongs here, surrounded by the hum of the café, even if this isn’t where he imagined himself when he dreamed of being a famous musician. Life threw a tragic spoke in the wheel of hisplans. Instead of letting it make him bitter, he built something incredible—for himself and for Sophia. Maybe there’s a place here for me too.
Rayne Persaud, the director of tourism for Bayside, reached out to me this morning about a travel brochure. Chaz had shown her my photos, and she wanted to discuss buying some of them. Even a week ago, I would have doubted myself. I would have thought my work wasn’t good enough. Now, I feel excited about my first commission.
Chaz slides the finished latte across the counter. I glance down at the foam art—lips dusted with cocoa powder. Curious, I pull out the napkin tucked beneath the cup.
The words scribbled on it make me laugh out loud.
“Britney Spears. Really?”
“Really.” He leans over the counter, his voice dropping to a soft, teasing whisper. “In case you were wondering, I wasn’t just talking about the coffee.”
God, I’m going to miss this man. I grab the front of his shirt, pulling him to me for a quick, impulsive kiss, heedless of who’s watching.
“Two weeks,” he says, low and firm as I release him. “Be back, or I’m coming to get you.”
The music isn’t hitting tonight. No matter how many chords I strum or songs I start, none of it feelsright. I set the guitar aside, and the sudden silence in the studio amplifies the noise in my head. All of my thoughts are centered on Lexie.
She’s only been gone nine hours, but the ache in my chest feels bigger than the last time she left. Bigger because now I know she loves me and worries I can’t love her back with mywhole heart. That my hate and anger are too much for me—too much for us. That it will be the third wheel in our relationship.
I glance over at the pictures of my dad and me hanging on the wall. Almost all our time spent together involved music. He worked so hard to put me into a private arts and music school, but he missed most of my performances.
Sorry, I had to work.That was his usual refrain. It was his excuse for not being home for dinner, for being on his computer during vacations, for not showing up where we needed him to be.
I remember the fights between him and my mom, their voices carrying late into the night.
“You work for a tyrant, Miguel,” my mother would say. “He’s bleeding you dry, but you’re letting him. Say no. Quit. Choose us.”
“How can you say that I’m not choosing my family?” he’d shoot back. “This is all for you and C. For our baby girl on the way.”
“No! It’s not,” she’d argue. “We want you here, but you choose to be a martyr instead.”
I was so mad at her for saying that. My dad was a hero to me, like Captain America in the comic books that I devoured as a kid. Solid, honorable, fighting even when the odds were stacked against him.
As an Afro-Latino man, he carried the weight of expectations on his shoulders, believing there was no room for error, no allowance to ease up. He often said, “Our people don’t get second chances,mijo. We work twice as hard for half as much, and even then, it’s not always enough. I want better for you. I want you to have the world.”
He lived by that code—providing for his family at any cost.
And then there was the villain, Theodore Townsen—a real-life Kingpin. Ruthless. Greedy. Pulling strings from his ivorytower while men like my father broke their backs to make him richer.
My dad sacrificed everything, and Townsen took it all without so much as a second thought. I’ve spent years blaming him for my father’s death, for the life that was stolen from us. And I still believe that. Could my father have made a different choice? Yes. But that doesn’t let Townsen off the hook.
Yet, Lexie’s words stick with me.I love you, Chaz. You are the best man I have ever known. You deserve to live a life free of my father. Free of that anger.
Have I let my hatred for him define too much of my life? Would it keep me from loving Lexie fully? Would I look at her and always see her father? I don’t think so. I looked at her today, soaking her in, and I didn’t see Townsen’s daughter. I saw her. Just Lexie. My Blue.
But I circle back to the question:Are anger and grief cement blocks that have kept me stuck in the past?
If I’m being completely honest with myself, the answer is yes.
I just don’t know how to let it go.
Dice is behind the bar, midway through a story, captivating a couple of women who hang on to his every word. He’s a showman—exaggerated gestures, well-timed pauses, cocky grin.
“. . . and that’s how I ended up in a wet T-shirt contest,” he finishes with a wink.
